Seal my heart
by Vanessa Crispin
Summary: Alt. ending of the 1990 remake. What if Barbara had found Ben alive?


_Author's note: if you didn't cry at the end of this movie, you are probably not as sappy minded as I am :P_

* * *

 _There was no one in the town and no one in the field_

 _This dusty barren land had given all it could yield_

 _-_ Dustbowl dance, Mumford & Sons

* * *

Once Barbara reached the cluster of trees not far from the house, she hardly saw any of those dead things. They were all feeling drawn towards the house, and those still left inside it. But that didn't stop her from running, like they were right at her heels. But it wasn't fear that propelled her forward, leaping over bushes and puddles of mud.

The adrenaline rush was still running high, her dark eyes alert for trouble ahead. She didn't know where the nearest house was, or if there even was one. But she must run into another living person at some point. She just has to.

Because Ben still needs her help, for him she has to keep going.

But she can't think too much about Ben, can't have his soothing voice distract her in her mind when she needs to be ready for the next kill. Would she relish that one too, as much as she had with that bald man at the house? You're losing it girl. Ben had said, because he still saw them as people – he'd been crying earlier. He did what he had to do in order to survive, but she had seen his sorrow over that little girl.

But Barbara didn't cry – not until she had to leave Ben behind, promising to get help. But even then it had seemed futile that he'd survive the night, on his own. But it was a promise she couldn't break.

Her foot got caught on something and she tripped, scraping her elbow in the process. A man with a bullet in his head was lying face down in the woods, a skinny man in hunting clothes. Perhaps he'd known and decided to take himself out before anything else could happen.

She raided his pockets for shells and anything else that might be useful. A sharpened knife in its holster that she pocketed. If it came down to it, perhaps she could stay for a few days living among the trees – could climb up and sleep among the branches – the dead things didn't climb, as far as she could tell. Can't think straight with all this adrenaline running through her – knows that her muscles are beyond worn out and tired.

She didn't stop for breaks, knowing that if she did stop and sit down, she'd likely never get up again, her energy running on empty. Hadn't had a meal since before it all happened. Barbara stopped only to rest her body against a tree, trying to catch her breath and make her heart stop racing for fear of going into cardiac arrest. Shock could do that, in some cases – if your heartbeat didn't slow down. Usually that only happens to people in their 50s, or those under extremely stressful situations.

Running from dead things who can eat you can be, as it turns out, quite stressful.

Despite everything that had happened in the last 24 hours, nature went about its regular way – autumn leaves were piling the dirt ground, birds were settling down for sleep as the moon crept over the nightsky. Nature was still living, while humankind was struggling to do the same.

Barbara thought of predators stalking through the night, and imagined herself to be one to make it easier, more logical when the next corpse came walking stupidly towards her, clouded eyes and dislocated jaw dangling off its head.

The dead things head explode and the blood flies in every direction, tomato red.

A nightingale sings and it sounds like a joke.

* * *

When she found the truck, she thought she could take it and drive back to the house. But there was of course, now keys up front.

Then those hunters had turned up, a setup for coming across more of those things. When they realized that she was alive, they chuckled, and thought she was mighty stupid for walking alone at night. Barbara said nothing to this, merely glowered at them.

After that she tried to reason with them. "Help my friend, he's in trouble." but they only laughed at her, when she had explained the situation.

"Heck, we're only a couple of guys. We need all the men from base camp to handle this without watching our backs."

And she thought that was a sound reason, and did see that it was a better idea to wait until tomorrow. But different visions of Ben dying plauged her even as she was being driven towards safety, a guarantee that she could rest for the night. It was probably too late for him anyway, so she prepared herself for bad news. The whole world was one bad newsreel now – the radio in the car played nothing but loops of advice from the government about staying inside and not let anyone in, to not engage with the "former living".

Something that her current companions were all too happy to ignore. Even as she went to sleep in the car's passenger seat, a jacket thrown over her thin shoulders, their hoots of laughter and the distant sounds of a gunshots lulling her to sleep. Happily, she did not dream.

* * *

There was an air of finality when they drove up to the house the next day, the curtain down past the last act of a very bloody three act play. This is it then, she thought. She spotted Tom (or what was left of him) strewn across the lawn – his familiar baseball cap lying next to a grey lump of flesh that might have been brain or muscle.

Yesterday morning she would have screamed at the sight. Now she just looks at it, pokes it with the end of her shoe.

Judy was in a similar condition, lying in the driver's seat with most of her beautiful hair torn out (did the dead things eat hair as well?) and her arms and legs torn off. She was squirming around on the seats, opening and closing her mouth like a fish until one of the hunters came by and scooped her out of the car, dragging her towards the pile of bodies that was being set up on the lawn. The bodies were going to be burned, the only way to safely assure that none of those things would come back.

Barbara hesitated, standing on the threshold for a moment before she entered the house. From inside, there was no sound but the industrial saw used to pry open the basement door. The upstairs was empty, and so was the living room and the kitchen. So who was left in the basement?

She stood there and watched the two men saw their way through the door, which felt like a slow process. Something she hadn't considered until this morning was that Ben might have committed suicide during the night. She didn't think so, he seemed so strong. And he was – more than capable in so many ways. And he hadn't been bitten, had he? But then she remembered his gentle ways, and the way he had talked about what he had seen in the city, his eyes devoid of hope. Goddamn it Ben, please tell me you haven't been thinking that I wasn't going to come back…

The two men pried the door open, looking down the stairs and calling out. At first she stood back, and didn't approach the door to look herself. Rubbed at her arms and felt frozen in place – but she had to know.

"Move." she muttered, edging her way through the basement doorway, past the two men. There was nobody coming up the stairs.

"Ben?" she called out carefully, eyes searching the dark basement – the electricity must have gone out sometime in the night. She pulled out the gun she'd been given that was now strapped to her side at all times – just in case. She proceeded down the stairs, not finding any signs of disturbance.

"Ben? it's me, Barbara." she called out to the room, blinking rapidly to try and see better. She could now make out shapes and depth – could see that there was a couch at the far end of the room, a beat up washing machine and the table where the little girl had been resting on.

Something on the floor shifted, something being dragged and she turned around at the sound, stared into the darkness. A hand shout out of it, landing on a patch of light on the dusty floor. Spidery, long fingers that she remembers.

"Barbara." a deep voice said, but it said the name like it didn't know the meaning of it. But it was his voice, wasn't it? Relieved, she approached his siluette, which was becoming more and more visible.

"Ben, I'm here now – it's going to be okay." she put the gun down and reached out towards him, finding his shoulders, examined his shotgun wound. She was checking him for further injuries, bitemarks – and he hadn't stopped staring at her face. He looks stunned – and sad as well. Not that she notices, busy trying to work out how much blood he's lost. His light blue shirt is stained red, but he's tied some sort of bandage around the wound to stop the bleeding.

"You're here." he says, and she nods briskly – her eyes so bright with energy. And perhaps madness as well, who knows. She smiles, sort of crooked. She didn't use to smile like this.

"I said I'd come back, didn't I?" she asks, leaning back. He stares at her for a long moment, expression intense yet unreadable. Then he lowers his head and sighs.

"It got all so...messed up." he says quietly, shaking his head. She grabs one of his hands, intwines it with hers.

"But you're alive, and so am I."

He lifts his head and looks at her again, but this time his jaw is tense and there's wild anger in his eyes. But he does not let go of her hand. Instead he holds on tighter, forcing her to listen.

"It's easy for you isn't it? All this, you don't even see what it has done to you..." ah, this again. He was like this last night too, when she was the verge of having fun. Like surviving had taboos you couldn't, or shouldn't break.

"I've survived because of what I am. Would you rather I'd died? " she asks, her voice flat. At that, some of the anger leaves him, and he goes quiet for a moment. The hand that's not holding onto hers reaches up to rest over her cheek.

"No. Never."

That confession, so simple – is what does it for her. She cries.

"I thought you'd….after I left, I feared that you would do something stupid. And I kept thinking, if only I had stayed..." But Ben silences her before she can finish the sentence.

"Don't think. Never think like that Barbara. Never apologize for wanting to live, even on this hellish planet, such as it is. "

"That's some good advice." she says, before resting her forehead against his, and closing her eyes, breathing out. Still so, so relieved. He tucks his arms tightly around her, not caring that it might jostle the wound on his arm.

They stay like that on the basement floor for awhile, taking comfort in each other. Eventually though it's time for them to leave.

And this time, she did bring a car.


End file.
